This is creepy, right? These little stuffed animal hybrids were everywhere up and down South 1st Street.

I liked it.

A lot.

More than I thought I would.

I get ideas about cities. I know, I know – that’s wrong. You shouldn’t formulate an opinion about a place before you’ve even visited. My favorite show right now is called Scrotal Recall. That revelation alone means that I should know better than to judge something before I have all the facts.

But Austin surprised me. We weren’t there long – just for a weekend jaunt last month, but it was enough to enjoy the sun and listen to the thunder and eat barbecue until we could barely move. Here are a few shots from our trip. It was an effort to not make every one a picture of either food or Rand. Success was middling.

Rand and me, in front of the iconic I Love You So Much mural. Ignore my seafoam green pants. IGNORE MY SEAFOAM GREEN PANTS. (I make a lot of strange decisions when shopping at Anthropologie. I think because it smells so good in there, I get disoriented.)–

I refer not to my tendency to watch DVR’d episodes of American Idol for hours on end (long after, I should note, the phone lines for voting have closed, making my behavior particularly inexplicable, even by reality TV standards). I stopped doing that in 2013, after my husband caught me unconsciously contorting my face in weird ways as the contestants sang. (This alarmed both of us.)

The weekly idiocy to which I refer is my ongoing commitment to shopping at Trader Joe’s. There, despite my better judgment, I spend countless dollars on half-composted produce and pantry items that were likely conceived of in a thinktank dedicated to fucking with hipsters.

“If we give it a cute name and cater to a dietary restriction that we’ve convinced them they have, they’ll pay $8 for muffins that taste like wood pulp.”

Photo via. Because sometimes reality is way funnier than the shit I can come up with.

I do this in part because I have the misguided impression that by shopping at Trader Joe’s, I’m supporting an independent neighborhood grocer. The reality is that the chain is owned by one of the wealthiest families in Germany, and their Wikipedia page includes the phrase “horse meat contamination scandal” and reveals that they once fired an employee for being HIV positive. Which sort of changes how I view the company.

But if you don’t know any of that, I can understand how Trader Joe’s might seem like food heaven, especially if you’ve been stranded on a desert island for years, or if you’re a vegan. Then the aisles filled with overripe produce, amorphous clouds of fruit flies, and tubs of hummus that are inexplicably covered in a patina of more hummus seem like a godsend.

For a few tender years in my twenties, when it was the only grocery store in walking distance, I would skip down the aisles gleefully, while disaffected Trader Joe’s employees carted out bags upon bags of diced butternut squash and wilted lettuce like tattooed, severely depressed Christmas elves.

And now, even though the years have taught me that I’d be better off getting my produce from a gas station, I still shop there. It might be nostalgia. Or frugality. Or Stockholm Syndrome.

Here is a brief list of products that I keep buying, because I am a well-intentioned moron.

—————–

Freeze-Dried Strawberry Slices

When I first discovered these, I excitedly grabbed a few bags, with the intent of adding them to cheaper variants of cereal and somehow saving money (a sort of flawed fiscal logic which is also to blame for the Great Depression and the rise and fall of Beanie Babies in the 1990s).

THERE GOES OUR RETIREMENT PLAN.

When dry, these former strawberries have the exact same texture as Lucky Charms marshmallows, which, in turn, have the exact same texture as chunks of styrofoam. But once you let them sit in milk for a while, their texture is magically transformed into “styrofoam that has been sitting in milk for a while.”

There are presently four of these bags sitting in my pantry. I keep buying them because I’m convinced it’s basically like printing money, which Rand says I can’t do anymore.

—————–

Green Onions That Deserved a Better End Than This

These were in my fridge at the same time because there is something wrong with me.

Green onions aren’t that expensive in the regular grocery store, but I can’t resist an entire bagful for a dollar. If you need some hints of how to use up that many green onions, here’s my favorite recipe:

Place green onions in vegetable drawer.

Forget them there for 3 weeks.

Blame your husband.

—————–

Huge Plastic Clamshells Full of Basil That I Will Never Finish

At $3.99, these are a total bargain compared to the much smaller containers of basil they sell at the regular grocery store. The problem is that, much like Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections, there is no way you are ever going to get through it. I have finished a pack of Trader Joe’s basil exactly once, when I got slightly drunk and decided I needed to make enough pesto to fill a bathtub.

I know what you’re thinking – That’s awesome. A bathtub full of anything edible is the American dream. And to that I would yell, “YES, unless it’s pesto, which is never as good as you think it’s going to be, and then you have a bathtub of it and your poo will be green for the next week.”

So I usually just leave the basil in my fridge until it ends up looking like regurgitated kelp.

—————–

Garlic

Trader Joe’s should be commended for pioneering a remarkable new variety of garlic that contains no cloves whatsoever. It’s composed entirely of garlic skin, so you save yourself the trouble of peeling or chopping, and can just throw the entire bulb directly into the trash.

They tend to be slightly more expensive than ones from the regular grocery store, but you are paying for convenience.

—————–

Quinoa

Quinoa (or, as my aunt pronounces it, corn-wah-wah) is just like rice, except that it’s a lot harder to cook and tastes a lot worse, because it’s better for you. So whenever I go to the store, I pick up a bag. And then I realize I hate quinoa, and never make it. And then I read some article about quinoa being good for you, and I go back to the store and buy more quinoa which I WILL NEVER EAT BECAUSE IT IS TERRIBLE.

These are actually in my house right now.

Dante was wrong: the seventh circle of hell is ancient grains.

—————–

Miscellaneous Baking Ingredients for Dietary Restrictions That I Don’t Have

I grew up in the 80s, before people had dietary restrictions. The only person who had a food allergy was my friend Giselle (you probably have heard of her. She’s that one girl who had a food allergy in the 80s). At birthday parties, Giselle would quietly enjoy a fruit plate while the rest of us rammed cake and Cheetos into our mouths like squirrels in mid-winter.

That sort of widespread bacchanalia ended sometime around 2006, when scientists traced the root of all crime directly back to dairy products. Convinced that a restrictive diet will absolve me of all my sins, I regularly buy things like coconut flour and gluten-free oats, because maybe wheat is the reason why I have acne and yell at the television and forget to pay the credit card bill.

Spoiler: it’s not.

—————–

Mini Tomatoes

I swear to god, these things look absolutely gorgeous in the store. Then I get them home, and they age faster than that dude from Indiana Jones who drinks from the wrong grail.

I think I keep buying them because watching them wither while I stay relatively young is the closest feeling I will ever have to immortality.

—————–

Organic Baby Broccoli

I buy these weekly.

If they aren’t available in your area, you can always head into the backyard and eat a few twigs.

It’s basically the same thing.

—————–

Trader Joe’s Blue Corn Tortilla Chips

These are amazing. I’ve checked the ingredients, and even though they’re made of mostly just corn and salt, these chips taste exactly like paper. At first I thought I just got a bad batch, but I’ve bought them numerous times (because idiocy) and now I’m pretty convinced that this is what Trader Joe’s wants them to taste like.

I’m sure that a relaunch of this product with a clever new name is forthcoming.

—————–

Sanity-Shattering Bouquets

If you buy flowers from a regular grocery store, (or, for those of you who are just pooping out money, a florist), you’ll usually just get, well, flowers. But not if you buy a bouquet from Trader Joe’s.

If you take home of any of their flowers, you get – free of charge, I might add – a fruit fly colony starter kit. In just a few days, you can have your very own swarm of nature’s telemarketers (as I like to call them) covering every surface of your kitchen. And if they become too much for you, don’t worry – you can just pack up all your worldly possessions and move (take note: in California and Oregon, your home now legally belongs to the flies).

—————–

I do this almost every single week. You’d think I’d learn my lesson. But today, I made my grocery list. And I swear, I didn’t alter it for comedic effect. This is my actual list:

Basil. Green onions. Mini tomatoes.

There is something seriously wrong with me.

P.S. – I’m pretty sure the free samples that they give out at my local store are tequila shots. Because I have no other explanation for why every single person in the parking lot is driving like they are shitfaced. Layouts like this do not help:

THEY WANT ME TO DRIVE INTO A ROW OF CARS.

]]>http://www.everywhereist.com/im-in-a-shame-spiral-because-of-these-trader-joes-products/feed/33Things in Women’s Magazines that Make Me Stabbyhttp://www.everywhereist.com/things-in-womens-magazines-that-make-me-stabby/
http://www.everywhereist.com/things-in-womens-magazines-that-make-me-stabby/#commentsThu, 28 May 2015 23:57:43 +0000http://www.everywhereist.com/?p=12480Sometimes, during our travels, I will purchase a fashion magazine at the airport. It’s a terrible idea: they’re expensive and they don’t make me feel good about myself, but for some reason, I keep buying them (note: this also applies to skinny jeans and ten-pack-passes to barre class. Sometimes it’s nice to pretend we’re something we aren’t).

I will read my glossy rag with an optimism that is in no way grounded in reality, hoping to find an article about how the new trend on the runways is a Streisand-esque nose, or how eating cake is good for you. I repeatedly strike out on those fronts, but once, I found a piece in Cosmo about how going braless was in vogue.

I immediately unhooked mine, pulled it out through the sleeve of my shirt, and flung it across our hotel room while yelling, “I AM FASHION.”

My husband was somewhat confused, but nevertheless appreciated the gesture. In hindsight, I suppose the article was targeting skinny girls with perky boobs, but I’ve always been egalitarian when it comes to eschewing lingerie.

Letting the girls hang loose for an evening is probably the high point of my relationship with women’s magazines. I repeatedly blow $7 on a bound stack of pages that is mostly comprised of full-page spreads for products that make me want to stab someone in the eye, and the occasional advertorial about how the key to making any marriage work is effective depilation of everything below the waist.

The simple solution would be to stop buying these miserable manuscripts in the first place, but THEN what will I do when I’m at 30,000 feet and I’ve already finished my book and eaten all the loose Tic-Tacs at the bottom of my purse?

Besides, these magazines help me focus my anger, which worked really well for Luke in Return of the Jedi. As such, I have compiled a list of things that I come across on a regular basis in women-targeted magazines that make me particularly rageful.

My husband, I should note, was unaware of what half of these things even were.

Thong underwear. I have been repeatedly told by magazines, television, movies, and the occasional well-intentioned but obviously insane friend that I am making a huge mistake by refusing to wear thong underwear. It eliminates panty lines, they argue, but I maintain that if you can see your underwear line through your clothes, then either 1.) your clothes are too tight, 2.) your clothes are too thin, or 3.) this isn’t actually a fucking problem because who cares? If men’s boxers are constantly visible over the top of their jeans, then human females should get to wear underwear that isn’t designed to be embedded between their butt cheeks.

These were listed as “most wearable lingerie.” Which I find amusing.

Plus, thongs increase your chance of bacterial infection and bacterial vaginosis. AN ARTICLE OF CLOTHING DOES THIS. Ultimately, though, what you wear to cover your bits is none of anyone’s business, right? So when I say I like full-coverage granny panties (and I do. Oh, how I do), it would be nice if people didn’t react as though I told them I club baby seals for fun.–

Latisse. Because the list of things that I should feel self-conscious about isn’t long enough, I apparently need to add “too thin eyelashes” to this list. While I can understand this being a treatment for a legitimate medical problem, Latisse is advertised like a beauty product. Except that, you know, if you get it in your eyes, IT WILL BLIND YOU.–

Ads that are for … I don’t know, ennui? Vampirism?–

Spanx. A few years ago, an enterprising woman decided she wanted to embrace the circulation-inhibiting snugness of a control-top pantyhose without the warmth of the actual hose. So she cut the legs off a pair, and –voila– a new generation of corsets were born, making her a billionaire (and proving, once again, that we are our own worst enemies).
Another one of those fashion products I’m repeatedly told I can’t live without, Spanx are sweaty, constricting, and make you feel like an overstuffed sausage without the added benefit of actually getting to eat any sausage. I wore a pair for approximately two hours on my wedding day before running to the bathroom, whipping them off, and tossing them across the room (apparently I tear off my underwear and fling it across the room a lot. I’m just realizing this now).–

Nudity without context. Look, as all my underwear-flinging-across-a-room suggests, I’m totally okay with showing some skin, especially if it makes sense in the context of the ad. But stuff like this makes my eye all twitchy, because I just can’t follow the narrative:Is there ever, ever a real-world scenario where you would be wearing designer clothes, clutching a several-thousand-dollar purse, and also inexplicably topless? I’m asking partially out of curiosity, and partially because it sounds like fun.–

Anything weight-loss-related. Because seriously, what the fuck.–

Ditto for anything that mentions a thigh gap. Wage gap? We can talk about that. Education gap? That deserves attention. But whether or not your thighs touch is not a useful barometer for anything unless you are a cat burglar who really wants to wear corduroy pants. When I mentioned it to my husband, the following discussion ensued:–“Wait, what is it?”–“It’s the gap that women are supposed to have between their thighs.”–“Your thighs aren’t supposed to touch?”–“Apparently not.”–“How is that even possible? Like, are you supposed to stand with your feet together? Because there’s no way I can stand with my feet together and not have my thighs touch.”–“I don’t know. But if I stand with my legs really far apart … ”–(Cue us doing weird wide-legged walks in our dining room.)

Ads that make me hungry even though they have nothing to do with food. This one is for a hotel, but now I want a cookie:

Also, I think it’s pretty safe to assume that people this attractive don’t actually eat cookies.

Anything that feels like it was originally pitched as a pastime for residents of The Capitol in The Hunger Games.–Sorry, Bob, can’t talk now. I’m in my home library, using my designer leather purse as a feedbag for my stallion. Mondays, amirite?

“I also draped him in more handbags because WHEEEEEE!!! MONEY!”

I’d be remiss, though, if I didn’t note that amidst all the crap, there wasn’t occasionally something surprisingly delightful. Like when a prominent brand depicts a same-sex couple in one of their ads:

For some of us, this pain is not new. It’s one we’ve come to know well. We were there when Hasselbeck won the coin toss in the wildcard game in 2003, when he bravely said we were going to score, and instead was intercepted. We pounded on the ground so furiously when we beat the Cowboys in the playoffs in 2007, that our downstairs neighbors complained.

The pain extends back into our childhoods, but there are fewer memories to cull from. We vaguely recall being ridiculed on the schoolyard for our affinities.

“SEAHAWKS SUCK!” was the general taunt, which gains a few points for alliteration, but loses even more for lack of creativity.

This pain is not new to us.

But for some of you, it is.

I’m here to help. Because I know that there is nothing quite like the pain of a Super Bowl loss. Except for maybe a jarring, sudden, and seemingly avoidable Super Bowl loss.

The only thing worse than that? A Super Bowl loss to Bill “I tried out for the part of Emperor Palpatine but was too deemed creepy” Belichick and Tom Brady, human-Ken-doll.

And now you, dear friends, are experiencing the hat trick of all three. I’ve composed a small list that will help you deal with your extreme, suffocating, soul-consuming devastation.

It’s not as selfless as it seems. I’m hoping that if I keep reading it, it will put things in perspective for me, too. Maybe.

Stop asking “What if?”What if Wilson had handed the ball to Marshawn? What if the pass had been caught? This will get you nowhere, and only drive you crazy. Some improbable things go against you. Some go your way. What if your parents never met? What if another sperm had beat out the one that eventually made you, and you in your present incarnation NEVER EXISTED? What if we peed out of our nostrils?THESE ARE NOT QUESTIONS TO BE ASKED. Forget about what if. Just accept what is.–

Somewhere, you have at least one friend who is happy that their team won, and they aren’t being a total dickbag about it. So that’s kind of nice. You should buy that him or her a drink. When the pain blows over. In, like, 20 years.–

Avoid trash talking fans or cities. It won’t make you feel better, and will only bring more pain unto yourself. Remember: we’re not really in a place to talk shit right now. Players are fair game, however, as are coaches. That’s why we can bring up that Tom Brady cheated on his pregnant movie star girlfriend when she was 8 1/2 months pregnant, despite having only a molded plastic lump for genitalia.

You know what’s amazing? I’ve already used this photo on my site before. Having your own blog is the best, you guys.

–

Remember: you are NOT alone. There’s something to be said about there being strength in numbers. Today, the entire city is collectively weeping into our $9 organically grown flat whites. My husband is a Packers fan. Do you know what it was like for him 2 weeks ago? Imagine being in Boston last night. Yeah.

In happier times, at Lambeau field in 2012.

–

There are at least 53 guys (55 if you count the head coach and the GM, and I think we can) who feel worse than you right now. Teams are risking their fucking lives (and probably shortening them) to play the game. Let’s keep things in perspective.–

Now’s a great time to weed out the assholes in your life and your social media. There’s nothing like having your team suffer an immense, excruciating loss to see who’s a sore loser, and perhaps worse than even that, who is a sore winner. Block them, unfriend them, write them out of the will, or cut them out of your wedding photos (if they are the bride or groom, just paste Russell Wilson’s face over theirs).–

We won last year. That means we made it to the fucking Super Bowl THE YEAR AFTER WE WON THE SUPERBOWL. This was a rebuilding year. THIS IS WHAT WE DID IN A REBUILDING YEAR. If trends continue, that means that by this time next year, we’ll be ruling the entire NFL and most of the free-speaking world. We’ll takeover half of Canada and the entire Western seaboard and name it SEAHAWKLANDIA (or maybe Land of L.O.B.? I don’t know. I haven’t entirely thought this through.) I won’t tell you what to do when we’re in charge of everything, but consider being benevolent and kind despots to 49ers fans, okay?

It can’t always be like this. But one time, it was. And holy crap, was it ever great.

–

Don’t forget: it’s early. Our quarterback is 26. He is 11 years younger than Brady (though they look about the same age, because botox isn’t considered a PED). He is allowed to make mistakes. He has time to grow. And he’s never cheated on his immensely pregnant girlfriend with a supermodel. But he does go to Seattle Children’s Hospital. Every. Fucking. Week. He’s someone we can be proud of.–

“At least we’re not (insert team name here).” Look, one team is ahead of us, and their squishy balls might be to blame, as well as a coach with the charisma of sea cucumber. And we’re ahead of 30 teams, because of Beast Mode, the L.O.B., and a QB who is just so fucking sweet he might have given me a cavity.–

Pete Carroll seems like a genuinely good guy. He’s obviously not perfect, and there’s some NCAA stuff that’s iffy in his past, but he’s also never said a bad thing about a player, ever. Belichick, I shit you not, kidnapped the first born children of many of his starters, as well as a bunch of their new puppies, and grunted that they would be returned upon receiving the Lombardi trophy. As of 9:30am PST, the children have been returned. 3 of the puppies remain missing. (Unsubstantiated rumor: Belichick was seen wearing a bib with a puppy emblazoned on the front sometime last night.)–

It is okay to cry. This became an unofficial rule in my house after I wailed for a good 20 minutes over our 2012 elimination from the playoffs: you can cry once a season (more than that is negotiable based on need or age). Tears are not to be ridiculed in any way. Hell, we don’t even need to fucking talk about it. You’re crying, okay? NO BIG DEAL. You like football and you’re sensitive. It’s not your fault you are well-rounded and in touch with your emotions in a world that isn’t. Try to keep it under 20 minutes, though (for practicality’s sake).–

The Patriots are legitimate cheaters. Even if you put aside Deflate-Gate for a moment (BUT WHY SHOULD WE?) they still have Spygate. Belichick’s history will be tainted. Whatever wins they have will be accompanied by an asterisk. Whatever wins we have will be accompanied by Skittles and microbrews.

I know it stings right now, but I promise: it will go away. It’ll take time. But soon enough, things will return to normal. Marshawn will continue to be taciturn. Wilson will continue to be a total mensch. Belichick will return to the bridge under which he lives, demanding a toll from people who attempt to cross it while sipping puppy blood from a goblet. And Tom Brady will continue to press his crotch against his wife’s in a feeble attempt to engage in sexual intercourse, despite his not having a winky.

And it’ll probably rain here in Seattle. But if we wait it out long enough, we’ll see sun. And we’ll remember why we never want to be anywhere else, and why we’ll never root for anyone else.

But in the meantime, I’ll be doing this:

Vintage Seahawks blanket I’ve had since I was a kid? Check. Locally made 2Bar vodka? Check. A lifetime of regret and pain? … Check.

I’m sitting here in a chilly, air-conditioned San Diego hotel room, thinking about home. I haven’t quite figured out how I’m going to get back there. In two days, I’m supposed to fly to Seattle out of Los Angeles. I have made exactly zero plans to get to Los Angeles in order to catch said flight. Changing my ticket to depart out of San Diego is, for the time being, prohibitively expensive.

Consequently, home feels very far away. And it will just have to remain so, I guess.

In the meantime, I find my thoughts wandering back to Asia. During that trip, home didn’t simply feel distant – it felt like another planet. Like no amount of flying would get me there. There were days when this bothered me, and days when I didn’t mind so much.

One hazy day, towards the end of our time in Cambodia, we visited a floating village. We passed by schools and stores, and yes, homes, bobbing up and down on the water. At that moment, more than any other, I missed Rand.

I wanted to dive into the water, and pull myself out on my doorstep.

Here are a dozen photos from that day. When home was half a world away, and I wished that only a short swim would get me there.

Piggy-back ride in the river.–

Neighbors.–

Precarious laundry.–

A study in orange.–

Young captains.–

Bright facade.–

Like a yellow sun against the sky.–

Field of lily pads.–

Swimmers.–

Home delivery.–

Along main street.–

Spotted by a local.

]]>http://www.everywhereist.com/scenes-from-a-floating-village-cambodia/feed/11Scenes From Ravello, Italyhttp://www.everywhereist.com/scenes-from-ravello-italy/
http://www.everywhereist.com/scenes-from-ravello-italy/#commentsTue, 17 Jun 2014 12:00:11 +0000http://www.everywhereist.com/?p=11348I may have given you the impression that the only thing to see in Ravello is the Villa Rufolo. And that’s not entirely right. Sure, the Villa is the full-sized Reese’s peanut butter cup in your Halloween bag: hands down the best thing in there. But if you look around a little, you’ll find a couple of Kit-Kats, and maybe a mini Twix (also, as this metaphor illustrates, I have a hankering for some candy. I blame Rand, who brought me a “fun-size” Almond Joy this afternoon, which I consumed in nearly one bite. I now have the overwhelming desire to eat several dozen more).

My point is (rummages through purse, finds an almost-full box of Tic Tacs. Proceeds to pour them straight into her mouth) the entire little village is lovely. Here are a few more scenes from the afternoon we spent there.

Portions of the original city wall are still standing in parts.

I’m starting to think that green doors are a thing in Italy. We saw them everywhere.

Winding paths, ancient buildings, and a sky so blue that it rivaled the sea. Not too shabby, right?

Now if you’ll excuse me, I think there’s a York peppermint patty at the bottom of my freezer somewhere.

]]>http://www.everywhereist.com/scenes-from-ravello-italy/feed/410 Photos from Germany: Seeshaupt and the Starnberger Seehttp://www.everywhereist.com/10-photos-from-seeshaupt-germany-and-the-starnberger-see/
http://www.everywhereist.com/10-photos-from-seeshaupt-germany-and-the-starnberger-see/#commentsMon, 12 May 2014 12:00:00 +0000http://www.everywhereist.com/?p=11177On our last morning in Germany, we went to Seeshaupt.

I was absolutely not drunk, but some of my photos seem to suggest otherwise. I can only assume that wandering around a picturesque lake on a quiet morning has an intoxicating effect on me, and that I shouldn’t drive after visiting one.

I also shouldn’t drive because I will spend far too much time searching for something called a chococult. Though to be fair, that’s true when Rand’s behind the wheel, too. (But more on that in a moment.)

Seeshaupt is rather lovely, and is located on the Starnberger See (which, despite the homophonic tendencies, is not actually a sea but a lake). If you go early on a Sunday morning in the springtime, you’ll find that the air still carries a chilly edge to it, and the water is remarkably still and clear. The only sounds are the calls of a few birds, the constant hum of buzzing insects, and the occasional chime of a church bell.

If you have the misfortune of being there when I am around, that soundtrack will also be punctuated with me making lots of terrible jokes. My apologies. (In my defense, I was provoked.)

Here are some photos of our visit. Bad jokes included.

Tower of the church near the center of the village.–

Wee little footbridge.–

Rand walking out on the pier.–

The water is so clear, you can see to the bottom of the lake.–

And so still, the surface almost looks like glass.–

Self-portrait with Rand by the shore.–

Obligatory kissy face picture.–

A delightful translation error – I suspect this sign was supposed to say “fun fact”, and not “funny fact”. The placard explains the amount of energy produced by local wind turbines. This fact, I feel it pertinent to add, isn’t really all that funny. Or fun, for that matter. But I decided to pretend it was hilarious.–

And I was waaay too excited by this graffito. I would have loved to meet this gentleman, who sounds like he is both enthusiastic and agreeable.–

Rand and I saw this on a sign and spent a good 15 minutes trying to find this place. I envisioned a bunch of people walking around in white robes with chocolate stains all down the front and around their mouths.

We were both a little disappointed to hear that it’s just a place where people make chocolate, and not where they are all collectively married to a massive bar of it.

]]>http://www.everywhereist.com/10-photos-from-seeshaupt-germany-and-the-starnberger-see/feed/5Southern Italy: A Photo Previewhttp://www.everywhereist.com/southern-italy-a-photo-preview/
http://www.everywhereist.com/southern-italy-a-photo-preview/#commentsWed, 09 Apr 2014 16:58:06 +0000http://www.everywhereist.com/?p=11047Rand and I got home last night. Since we landed, I’ve been waging a losing battle against jet-lag. It is 9:15 am, and I really want to go to sleep, which, even if you take into account ALL of the time zones I’ve visited in the last few weeks, makes zero sense (depending on which location my body got stuck in, it is either 12:15pm or 5:15pm, neither of which are appropriate times for curling up and going to sleep). As best as I can figure out, I’m on Papua New Guinea time.

I have never been to Papua New Guinea, but it is presently 2:15 am Thursday there. Which feels about right.

As soon as we left Italy, Rand and I started to have a little bit of perspective on it. On our way home, we spent one more night in Germany, and two in Boston (I guess that counts as taking the scenic route), and when people asked how the Amalfi coast was, we both answered to effect of this:

It was beautiful. And stressful as hell.

Taking a photo in my grandparent’s village, presumably of a house I wanted to buy.

–

That, in brief, is southern Italy. It is lovely and infuriating. Something will inevitably happen that will cause me to think, “I’m never coming back here,” and then, in nearly the same breath, I’ll be planning our next trip to Naples and trying to convince my husband that we need to buy a summer home in my family’s village, which is hilarious for lots of reasons, not the least of which is this: we don’t even own a regular home, and I want to buy a summer one.

Family hike! I don’t know where we were going. I think there was a castle or something up on a hill (I realize none of that is helpful, but you guys, there are castles EVERYWHERE in Europe. You can’t walk five feet without bumping into one).–

The photo is blurry from the steam. Rand declared this pasta some of the best he’d ever had. It was hand rolled by my aunt and great-aunt in the village.–

Walking with my aunt Rosamaria along the limiti of town (The village sits at the summit of the mountain and extends downward. The limiti form a ring around the summit, where the center of town lies).–

This gentleman was amazing. His name is Marciano, and he stopped me in the street and asked me to whom I belonged. When he found out my mom’s last name, he took us to meet my third-cousin who lived down the road, and then showed us his workshop, where he made everything you see on the shelves.–

]]>http://www.everywhereist.com/southern-italy-a-photo-preview/feed/14Bavaria: A Photo Previewhttp://www.everywhereist.com/bavaria-a-photo-preview/
http://www.everywhereist.com/bavaria-a-photo-preview/#commentsMon, 07 Apr 2014 13:30:32 +0000http://www.everywhereist.com/?p=11042Helloooo from … the east coast of the United States? Yeah, that sounds about right. It’s presently 6:40 am in Boston, is where I woke up this morning. Which means it’s afternoon in the country that we just left yesterday, and it’s not quite 4am at home. A brief equation:

I really shouldn’t be on the internet right now because I’m way, waaay too zonked, but I’ve gotten a few emails from people asking when I was going to post again, and I’m feeling massively guilty about that (you can take the girl out of Catholicism but you can’t take Catholicism out of the girl, you know?)

Am I rambling? I probably am. Dear god, I need a cookie. But before I do that (SEE HOW I SUFFER?) here is a preview of the Germany portion of our trip. 10 photos, courtesy of my husband’s cell phone (which means that there are actually pictures of me amongst them, in a slightly more awake state than I am now. Which, to be fair, isn’t hard to do).

I was going to make it 12 photos of Bavaria but you guys, MY COOKIE LEVEL IS TOO LOW.

I’ll be back on Wednesday with some proper posts. In the meantime, here’s a little sneak peak at what we got up to.

PRETZELS!–

Hanging out at Neuschwanstein Castle (which is the model for Cinderella’s castle at Disney).

Snapping a pic of Rand (while simultaneously discovering that I don’t fear heights).

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Cuddling up on a mountain top.

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Said mountaintop.

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A surprisingly good meal at Munich Airport before departing for Italy.

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Phew. Okay – gotta run. Boston awaits.

]]>http://www.everywhereist.com/bavaria-a-photo-preview/feed/1410 Signs From Vancouver and Bowen Islandhttp://www.everywhereist.com/10-signs-from-vancouver-and-bowen-island/
http://www.everywhereist.com/10-signs-from-vancouver-and-bowen-island/#commentsFri, 04 Apr 2014 21:25:33 +0000http://www.everywhereist.com/?p=10962Rand and I have been on the road for a little while, so blog content has been a little thin lately (sorry about that). I’ll be back next week with some brand new posts, but in the meantime, I’ve been perusing my Flickr stream for any photos or stories that I haven’t yet shared with you.

That’s when I found the following set of photos, that Rand took in Vancouver and Bowen Island last August. As we were walking around, he kept noticing some wonderful signs outside of shops. Some were clever, some were strange, some were utterly confusing.

I find them all delightful – not just in and of themselves, but also because they give a little insight into Rand’s psyche. How he’s so hell-bent on enjoying life, that he can find amusement and wonder in just about anything.

I hope you like them, too.

Wait, when did we open this shop again?

I like it, because it works for virtually any establishment (you just need to change your definition of recently).

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Hey, at least they’re direct:

After we saw this, we kept walking everywhere, and then calling one another a “chump.”

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Touching the little knobs feels so wrong … and yet so right.

This was roughly four-feet-tall, and really fun to play with. (Insert a “that’s what she said” joke here).

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I like to pretend this wasn’t actually the name of a restaurant, but just a nice little FYI.–

Posted without comment:

Okay, fine. One comment: Hee.

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I see what you did here. And it was kind of corny. But I laughed, anyway.–

I’m still angry that we didn’t go here:

I mean, is it just an ice cream shop with a weird name? Or a taco shop that happens to have ice cream? Or (be still my heart) IS IT SOME SORT OF HYBRID TACO ICE CREAM SHOP? Because that would be amazing.

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I like this one, because I feel like this sort of quasi-apologetic explanation is quintessentially Canadian.